


The Cellist

by PlotDotOh (TheCheerfulPornographer)



Series: Valhalla Blues [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: M/M, Phil has a private life okay SHIELD, Romance, cello-based innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCheerfulPornographer/pseuds/PlotDotOh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How that whole cellist story came about.</p><p>(Clint/Coulson backstory for "Valhalla Blues")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cellist

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about a year after "Phase Transition".
> 
> This is the song that Phil is humming at the end: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xxYbF-Yzdf0

Phil likes Agent Janet Goldstein just fine. She's a good agent, from everything that he hears, and she quite capably leads an entire department of skilled computer hackers and data analysts.

He still isn't thrilled about having her in his apartment.

None of this would have happened, of course, if it hadn't been for the drunk guy who'd randomly stumbled into Phil and then managed to dump _whatever_ kind of foul-smelling liquor all over his shirt and jacket. (Really, who _does_ that at 10:30am on a Tuesday?)

If it weren't for Random Drunk Guy, Phil and Janet would have gotten into their SHIELD-issued car and driven to their SHIELD-issued press conference and delivered their SHIELD-issued speeches, completely without incident. 

If it weren't for Random Drunk Guy, Phil's day would be going much, much better than it is right now.

Instead, he's in his bedroom frantically throwing on a clean suit, while he stresses about being late to Nick's press conference and the negative consequences to his career that might result. Meanwhile, Goldstein stands awkwardly in his living room, flipping a pen through her fingers and trying very hard not to look too closely at anything.

It's just that Goldstein is a data analyst. Looking closely at things is kind of what they _do_.

When the bedroom door swings open and Phil emerges, still knotting his tie, she gives him a polite smile. "Ready to go?"

"God, yes," he says, giving the room a once-over. He's relieved to see that there's nothing too embarrassing around. His Captain America posters, both his prized vintage one and that awesome fanart that he got at Comic-Con, are hung up in the bedroom. And of course he doesn't keep any pictures of his family, or of Clint, where they're immediately visible.

They make it down to the street without comment, and for a moment Phil thinks that he's off the hook. Then they both climb into the car, and his illusion is rudely shattered. Goldstein looks over at him and says casually, "So, Coulson, I couldn't help but notice your cello case in there. I didn't know that you were a musician." 

She smiles at Phil, and he inwardly flinches.

As every person who works at SHIELD knows, Agent Goldstein plays the violin. Every person who works at SHIELD knows this because of the Top-Secret String Quartet, of which Agent Goldstein is the organizer and founding member. (That is, in fact, the group's official name. At least Agent Goldstein has a sense of humor.) And everyone knows the Top-Secret String Quartet because they've provided the music to _every_ SHIELD function during the last eleven years.

They're actually quite good.

But Phil can just _feel_ the invitation rising to the tip of Goldstein's tongue. She's about to ask if Phil wants to start practicing with them, perhaps even if he'd be interested in joining them for performances. She'll ask how long he's been playing, and his answer will be measurable in decades, and then she'll coo and her eyes will get all wide and she'll insist — no, she'll actually _beg_ that Phil come and join them.

He's seen her do it to people before, like that one time after their viola player died.

The thing is, Phil doesn't _want_ SHIELD to know about his music. He doesn't really want the whole office to know that he plays the cello for an hour, every single day that he can possibly find time. He doesn't want it to become general knowledge that he started playing when he was a child, nor that it's one of the few activities that can take his mind off of work for just a little while. (The other three are running, bad reality TV shows, and sex — and sex is a fairly recent addition to that list.)

Partly this is because Phil's hobby doesn't fit the image that he so carefully cultivates at SHIELD. 

A bigger part of it, though, is that his music is one of the few things that's still _his_ , and his alone. It's one of the few parts of his life that is entirely personal, private, non-work-related — one of the few things that SHIELD doesn't own. And he isn't going to let them take it over, like they've taken over nearly everything else.

(What he gives to his work, he gives willingly and wholly. But even Phil Coulson has to have _some_ boundaries.)

It occurs to Phil that this might be a chance to kill two birds with one stone. He turns to Agent Goldstein, and smiles his blandest smile. "Actually, I'm afraid that it's not mine. It belongs to someone that I'm seeing."

"Oh!" she smiles even more widely. "How nice. Do..." she hesitates. "... _they_ play professionally, or only as a hobby?" 

_Crap._ He really should have done more preparation for this bluff, at least picked out a few personal facts. Like a name, and a gender. 

The gender thing is especially tricky. Phil's not embarrassed about who he is; really, he's not. It's just that to him, things like that fall strongly into the category of "need-to-know". And Agent Goldstein _really_ doesn't need to know.

Besides, if he's going to lie, he might as well make it a good one.

"Ah, yes," he says, "she's a professional cellist, as a matter of fact. We met at a performance. She's really great." He smiles even more blandly, and tries to signal that he doesn't wish to continue the discussion. Luckily Agent Goldstein seems to get the picture, and returns her focus to the road, where it belongs.

 _Whew._ That was a close one.

\-----

The next afternoon, Phil is in his office working when he hears a dull thudding sound behind him. It's faint, nearly imperceptible — something that most people would never notice. 

Phil doesn't look around. "Agent Barton," he says, hiding a smile.

"Coulson." Hawkeye comes over and leans against the wall beside his desk, putting his hand on his chin in an exaggerated mimicry of a young girl. "So, word among the agents has it that you're seeing someone. Word is that _she_ " — he says the word with an exaggerated emphasis — "is a professional cellist."

Phil wrinkles his nose slightly, but doesn't look up from his papers. "Is that the word among the agents?"

"Yes indeed." Hawkeye shifts forward and bends down to Phil's eye level. He leans his elbows against the desk, blocking Phil's light. "It's okay, sir, you can admit it. All of the agents are very proud of you for landing someone so classy." 

The archer smirks, and his voice grows softer and deeper. "I'm sure that you and your cellist make beautiful music together. You must be wild about the way her hands caress the curve of a bow." 

A tiny smile quirks at the corners of Phil's mouth. He tries to hide it, but he knows that it's already too late. _Dammit._

He really tries not to encourage Clint in these things, while they're at the office.

"Get out, Barton. I'm working," he says. Despite his best efforts, his voice comes out warm and full of affection.

"I'm just saying, it's heartwarming to see someone finding true love at such an advanced age," Barton says, his voice full of mock innocence. Phil sighs loudly, and Clint shoots him a wink as he saunters to the door. 

Phil certainly doesn't covertly glance at Hawkeye's retreating backside, appreciating the form-fitting lines of his uniform. Not at all.

When he looks down at his papers again, there's a torn-off scrap of paper atop the pile, covered in Clint's sprawling, messy handwriting. "See you tonite @ 22:30," it reads.

Phil smiles to himself, and doesn't even bother to hide it this time. _Hell yeah._

As he turns back to his report, he begins to hum his favorite passage from 'Cello Concerto', by Dvorak.

\-----

Phil wraps one arm around Clint's chest, and pulls the other man closer. The archer makes a sleepy noise and squirms against the bed, pulling the sheet up higher around himself.

Phil lifts his head and brings his mouth right next to Clint's ear. "So, true love, huh?" he whispers. Clint freezes, and Phil can feel his heart start to beat faster against Phil's hand.

"Shh," he says, and lays a gentle kiss against the other man's neck, right below the ear. "It's okay. Me too."

He rests back against the pillow, and smiles fondly at the back of the other man's head. 

"Me too."


End file.
